It's a cold day by the waterfront. The kind that wouldn't be so bad if the infernal wind would die down for just a few seconds. But the breeze persists, changing directions every few seconds, seemingly blowing in from every angle in turn. It pauses only briefly, allowing only for the breath preceding a relieved sigh to be drawn, before it sweeps in again to slice through every wandering soul with it's penetrating chill. There is work still to be done, even on hateful days like these. The unfortunate ones whose business has driven them into the street today trudge through, gritting their teeth against the battering current as they mill around, bound for some destination that no one seems quite sure of.

Something like halfway down the lonely boardwalk, there was a minuscule boon of activity. The few of the usual peddlers who were crazy or desperate enough to be out today were sat by their cart, fighting off shivers. Among them is a new face; a man with too much energy for the company he was keeping, a backlight for their depression.

The man stands tall, chest out, as he waits for what influx of foot traffic will come this day. The bony fingers of his right hand tightly wound around the hilt of his rough, yet lacquered cane. Before him is a scarred wooden table. The sign draped over the front red "FIXER", smeared by hand in black shoe polish on torn and discolored linen.

He begins to beckon to anyone lingering within earshot. Within a few minutes a small crowd does indeed assemble itself around his table. Few drawn nearer out of stark curiosity, more by the excuse to bask in the meager warmth offered by the newly risen sun. None are expressly invested, as they shuffle about, tilting their heads back in hopes of catching a few merciful rays on their cheeks. Kilgore's head stays fixed in it's slightly downward cant, uninterested in fleeting comfort. His shaggy hair rebelling against the confines of his Panama hat, as the wind flutters the particularly restless wisps against the side of his face where they momentarily snag on the wiry evidence of a shave neglected several days over.

From beneath the obscurity of his hat brim, he peers out at his audience through overworked eyes, every muscle and ligament behind them giving dull reminders of their presence as they roll right to left, taking in the lackluster crowd. By this time, the idle patrons had turned their eyes upon him as well, no doubt mulling over several unspoken questions about the shoddy gentleman who had so unceremoniously called for their attention. Attention which, of course, they had forfeited in a complete absence of thought.

Whatever the arbitrary criteria he had decided upon apparently met, Kilgore rapped sharply against the weathered wood below him with the tip of his cane before vaulting himself onto the tabletop.

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, young and old... alike.

With the last word, Kilgore tipped his hat graciously, then pushed it high on his head.

Come, gather, listen, and be made aware.

He allowed the corners of his mouth to stretch outward, wringing from his face a grin that was wide and warm. It was a grin so irrepressibly genuine that the natural human reaction in its presence was mild panic.

But where are my manners? You good folks don't know me from Adam. Allow me, if you will, swift restitution. Name's Kilgore. How do you do?

As he offers a slight bow of the head, the fingers of his left hand work nimbly down the button of his coat, turning each one loose with a well-practiced ease. He shrugged the garment off of his shoulders, stripping to his vest.

Yes, dear friends, it's true that the body standing before you today is a recently acquired asset to your lovely community. But I tell you... my soul's been around as long at the grime that stains the very sidewalks of this once proud land. These eyes haven't been far, but the sights I've seen span continents and centuries alike. Though these legs are young and nimble, I've marched a hundred thousand miles.

The man bent hard at the waist, stooping closer to the level of the dissecting eyes.

See, I know what you all are thinkin' right now. You sayin' to yourselves, each and every one of you, "Hell. I still don't know this man from a duck in a raincoat. All this stuff he's talking... all this mess, all this trash, all this... shit. Don't none of it mean a goddamn thing to me.

He dropped to one knee, leaning into his audience, closer still. The lids of his eyes straining as they tightened, his voice breaking to a labored whisper.

Oh, but it does, my friends. Most certainly. Problem is, most people... they got no fuckin' idea what's important and what ain't. You might not think it-- but them's opinions. And opinions can't change facts.

Kilgore rose to his feet and once again let his eyes drift across the faces of his audience. Tight jaws, flared nostrils. Anger. Fear. Total interest.

He drew in a slow and deliberate breath, sliding fingertips into his hairline and running his hand backwards over the curvature of his skull. The straw hat, left to gravity, gave a thunk as it hit the tabletop behind him, before rocking gently to one side and falling farther onto the worn planks of the boardwalk.

"What's your deal, Joe? Are you threatening me?" I hear you sayin'. Not at all, folks. Not by a long shot. I wanna help... You all, you work so hard. Day in, day out, over and over and so on... in absolute stupidity. Completely lost in your own little darkness. Ain't your fault, friends. Nobody ever told ya. Weren't nobody there to show you the way, so you... you just keep wanderin'. But I tell you fine people today; ain't no light at the end of that tunnel. They say it's so, but I know the truth, folks. It ain't.

He shook his head in slow, soft motions, forcing a blink, then projected once more with all the vigor of a carnival barker

So you say now, kind souls, "So I guess that whatever it is you think I need, you got it, huh?" yes, friends. Every lost man needs a map, does he not? Well... I'm in the map makin' business. A man in the midst of drowning, he needs a life preserver don't he? Every poor man a ten dollar bill... Each battered woman a Protector! Each blinded child an eye! And every soul astray a guiding hand...

The bones in his hand creaked as he tightened his grip around the cane, holding it before the people with electric righteousness. The next few words escaped his throat like a breathless sight.

To all you gracious people here before me today-- I will reach back my hand to find you.

Kilgore falls to both knees, perching himself at the very edge of the table, stabbing is upper body outward toward the people around him.

I will FEEL for you in the darkest and COLDEST of all voids. I will take hold of you with my VERY HAND and I will PULL YOU UP... from that loathsome pit of despair.

His head fell forward momentarily, allowing his long blacks wisps to hang in his face.

So what am I, you say? Some kind of... modern day snake oil salesman? Well, my friends... if you get your hands on the right snake, and you wring just hard enough... you can fill a hell of a lot of vials.

He rocked to the left and allowed hi legs to slide out from under him, over the edge of the table. He feet met once more with the splintering boards below. He writhed achingly for a split second, a bead of sweat forming on his brow. He lifted his head, and passed his left hand forcefully across his jawline, the bristles of his unkempt maw trailing a prolonged scratching sound behind the movement.

Everybody... got a fire on the inside, you see. Them that's lucky enough to know, they might spend their whole godforsaken lives trying to smother it out... That ain't the way, friends. If you ever see that light burning way down on the inside of you, you'd better grab hold of it. You grab it, and you EMBRACE IT!

After a few deep, uninhibited breaths, Kilgore stood himself upright. He took a single step toward the congregation, having found himself on their level for the first time today.

Somebody... somewhere... at every minute of every day... knows just what each and every one of you is thinkin'. Uh-huh, they know... But ya'll don't know what the hell it is ya'll need. Just know... it's comin' to ya.

Kilgore swept his steely eyes across the people who had been listening one last time, his head involuntarily bobbing out a prescient nod. Slowly, he worked his way through the heart of his audience and left them calmly. Ambling wearily down the boardwalk, cane dragging behind, the hollow 'tonk-tonk-tonk' as it skipped on the edges of the planks. Until finally he let it fall to the ground, and was gone.

''Excuse me, ma'am. A coffee please, black.''

Slipping some change across the countertop, Lilac gives the waitress a cursory smile and turns her head to look out of the window, tucking a rogue strand of hair behind her hair as she reflects on the bewildering silence that consumed the street outside all too often. However, there was static in the air. She'd felt it all day long, lingering there like the promise of a storm.

A few moments later, coffee in hand, she leaves with her overcoat wrapped around her body more tightly than ever before. The chill in the air wasn't merely due to the temperature; it was a portent. Of what, she didn't know, but she believed enough in such things to know that it would emerge eventually from its chrysalis, bringing with it whatever was meant to be.

She pauses for just a second and takes a sip from her coffee in a futile attempt to warm even the smallest surface area of skin. It was useless; the cold was in her bones, elusive and complete with teeth, snapping with angry jaws at her marrow. All at once, that same static that had haunted her all morning passed like a wave over her head, forcing her to look in the direction of a gentleman who had positioned himself in preparation for a speech.

All too often (though perhaps, not often enough for some), Lilac was a passer-by when it came to individuals such as this. However, this man was rather different. Certainly unique. He demanded attention silently, but surely, with an almost ethereal power. On this occasion, she edges closer and leans against the wall of a dormant barber's shop, quickly becoming statue-still and she finds herself somewhat enraptured by the gentleman's vocal command.

Soon thereafter, Lilac remains outside the barber shop in precisely the same position while the stranger takes his leave. She watches him carefully, questioningly, not daring to move until her brain as absorbed every ounce of available information. At last, she looks down at her feet, as though reminding herself of their purpose, and marches onwards towards her destination, lost in thought.

Emerging from the back of the crowd walked a very proper looking fellow, he didn't wear the same attire as most of your usual thugs and underbosses but something that was quite unique, most would consider this attire very alien, something they wouldn't be found dead wearing.

Vince Noir had been seen around before but never seen talking too much in public eye, by his fellows he was considered rather strange and mysterious but he knew what he wanted and he had seen things in people that others did not, atleast that is what he thought of himself, something of an individual that had taste for the finer things.

Vince had been walking down the street minding his own that day when he had noticed a young man with a panama hat addressing the crowds with words that even he did not understand but he had only caught the speech half way through. He heard the man address himself as Kilgore, a very unusual name to the ear, though Vince did not think so, he very much liked the name Kilgore and thought that if this man ever did develop cement shoes that he would much like to name himself Kilgore. Though with a sudden shake of his head he realised that there was a better opporunity at hand he could speak to this Kilgore character and see if he could take him under his wing.

When Vince had heard that Kilgore was in the map makin business he couldn't help but get excited. So he watched as Kilgore finished up and saw the little trick that he had played on the crowds of lookers. He himself had to get out of tight spots in a flash so he knew where to look.

It's not everyday you see that...He muttered under his breath


Vince quickly walked further down the road to see if he could catch a trail of the direction which Kilgore might have went so he was studying stones on the path and limp grass.

It wasn't unusual for people to see Vince licking the greenery or picking up rubble and licking it but he found something and started to march quickly south to find the man that named himself Kilgore.